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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23480575">A maiden's simple joys</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/morethanprinceofcats/pseuds/morethanprinceofcats'>morethanprinceofcats</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Arthurian Mythology, Princess of Swords</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Devotion, F/M, Mild Gore, Rescue Missions</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 08:00:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,958</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23480575</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/morethanprinceofcats/pseuds/morethanprinceofcats</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A slightly alternate take on the Lancelot route of the Arthurian dating game Princess of Swords.  What if, instead of being repulsed by Lancelot's carnage against Maleagant, Rowena was kind of into it?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lancelot du Lac/Rowena of Ireland</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A maiden's simple joys</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Mira, I'm sorry I keep writing fanfiction about your fanfiction.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You look long on Lancelot, almost not recognizing him.  When you had asked him to carry your favor to the tournament, your mind had been full of happy, girlish thoughts of men laughing and jesting and gleaming in the sun.  A tournament, after all, is not a battle, though ideally the men who find glory there are also the greatest of warriors. But this… Lancelot’s armor does not gleam. There is blood smeared upon it.  On his fauld, on his left thigh, you can see the feeble hand-print a dying man left as he clutched at his murderer in his last, terrified moments. It is as if ghosts cling to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The contemptuous sneer, mobile in his rage, that had animated his face as he slew your abductor is gone by the time you look at him again.  In its place is concern that runs deeper than courtesy. You realize you were gazing at him with unseeing eyes; he must fear your mind is gone.  Or poisoned against him forever, now that you’ve seen the true price of knighthood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your rescuer reaches out his hand to you, red with a glove of gore.  You should think with revulsion on the men whose lives he has extinguished, or with fear that their blood, literally and metaphorically, will never wash out of your ruin of a gown.  Instead you clasp his bloody hand, sinking to the floor as you do, your legs finally surrendering to shock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir Lancelot,” you breathe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He responds to you at once, kneeling beside you, the barest flinch on his face betraying that he has remembered his new injuries.  He tries to brush your hair back, but his other hand is bloody too, and he hesitates when he reaches for you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My lady,” he says.  You have never thought courtesy and protocol could sound so tender, let alone coming from the mouth of a killer; you’ll never hear another one of his</span>
  <em>
    <span> my ladies</span>
  </em>
  <span> the same way again.  “Has he harmed you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You shake your trembling head, and your cheek comes in contact with his hand, still hovering near you.  But you don’t jerk away, even though the blood is sticky on your cheekbone; you shut your eyes and sway into it.  For the span of a heartbeat he holds your face, then he withdraws his hand, as stiff and awkward as if he had been hurt there too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” says Lancelot, looking down at his fingers and flexing them slowly. He smiles faintly.  “Or I killed him too soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that how you always kill them?” you ask, unable to stop yourself.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lancelot avoids your gaze, closing his fingers loosely into a fist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he says.  The word hangs ominously in the air.  But you never meant to shame him by asking.  You only wanted to know, to have a glimpse into his life, seeing as he has just saved yours.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timidly, you take his fist and press your lips to it.  He startles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is the cost of injustice,” you whisper.  “I will pray for Maleagant’s soul, of course, as I am sure you will… but do not ask me to regret what you’ve done. I can never forget what I owe you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This man who crossed Maleagant’s sickening sword bridge and bled, who barreled through the castle and left death in his wake, helps you to your feet so gently you hardly feel his grip, though you’re sure you wouldn’t mind if you did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You owe me nothing,” he says.  You meet his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know I cannot repay you in kind,” you insist, but he shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There is nothing to repay,” he says, holding up a hand to stop you before you protest this, and then he stops himself, holding your gaze in silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sir Lancelot is the queen’s premier knight, and the greatest knight in the kingdom, so many would have it.  He has fought for many men and women. But the look in his eyes, clear and pure in his blood-flecked face, seems to belong to you alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come,” he says finally.  “We must get you to safety.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he guides you through the empty castle, you attempt to persuade him that you have barely a scratch on you, whereas it is he, your savior, who is bleeding and bruised and needs looking after; but he will not hear a word of it.  You suspect he is brooding over the destruction in his wake, for the ruins of Maleagant’s personal guard are left in a broken and gory trail from the tower to the gate. If any man was spared, and you hope at least some were, he has long since fled the scene. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Forgive me for the shameful way I arrived here,” he says, leading you to Maleagant’s stables.  “Naturally, I would not ask you to ride back with me in a cart like a common criminal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t imagine I would care how I leave this place,” you say incredulously.  “So what if criminals ride in carts? If anyone would impugn my virtue after today, that speaks to their character more than it does my own.  I know I’ve done nothing wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cart driver is absent regardless; fled too, most likely.  Lancelot watches you in quiet appraisal as he helps you onto a horse.  You hold its reins loosely and look around yourself in discomfort while he mounts another.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will anyone be coming back here?” you ask.  “To bury the dead, and to care for the horses.”  The cart’s mules, too, are abandoned now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll send them from the castle,” he says, reaching out to touch your wrist.  “Can you ride?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You take a breath, and smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gladly!” you say. He laughs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Away from the somber scene of your savage rescue, your mood lightens quickly, but there is not much in the way of conversation.  Instead you gaze at the surrounding sky. The glimpses of flowers between the trees, the sunlight streaming through their branches, are more precious to you than they’ve ever been.  You vow to pay better attention from here on out.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your companion’s mood is less cheerful, however.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a disgrace,” he says abruptly on the road.  His voice is nothing but a low growl. “To think that after all the work Arthur has done to bring civilization to this land, petty kings and princes still think they can conduct themselves like bandits. I cannot imagine the thoughts in that bastard’s head, to imagine he could simply abduct a maiden he found defenseless in the woods!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you don’t need to try,” you remind him; “he spoke his thoughts out loud.  You see, he thought I was Queen Guinevere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lancelot is so shocked by this information that he can do nothing but repeat her name.  “Guinevere?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You don’t know what it means that he doesn’t repeat her title first.  Nothing, surely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because we could be sisters, of course,” you say in jest.  Now that you think of it, it might be less that your mood is joyous and more that you are a little bit giddy from the shock of what you’ve been through, so you try to rein yourself in.  “To be more serious, I think he was under a spell. His men could tell I was not, but no matter how I argued with him, Maleagant believed I was the queen. He planned to marry her - to marry </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> - and it didn’t matter to him that I - that </span>
  <em>
    <span>she</span>
  </em>
  <span> - is married already.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Funny, that Lancelot should look away at that.  When he catches you watching him, though, he looks back at you, and you give him a meaningful glance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I was on that path because Merlin told me to meet him there.  He also told me the queen rides there daily… so I suspect Maleagant had planned his abduction in advance.  Strange, don’t you think, that I should happen to be there instead.” You toss your hair, which is difficult on a moving horse.  “They </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> teach me sums in Ireland, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Merlin,” broods your knight.  “He should know better than to play with maidens’ lives.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A devastating thought occurs to you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think he did that so that the queen would be spared?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I never know with Merlin… but I have my doubts.  If he wanted to intervene on her behalf, there are better ways to do it than to put another in harm’s way.”  Lancelot is trying to comfort you, and there is some comfort in that fact alone; but the notion doesn’t leave your head.  Any giddiness that possessed you is long gone now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, if the queen had been the one taken…” you murmur, barely audible above the sound of hoofbeats.  “I know, all the realm knows, you would have saved her. But I didn’t know if anyone was coming for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your horse stops, skittishly, when Lancelot abruptly brings his own horse around in front of it to look you in the eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You gave me your favor,” he says. “And in return, I promised to fight for you.  I keep my promises.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You feel helpless when you look at him, not for the first time today.  And yet this is something entirely new. You’re entirely unafraid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lancelot reaches out his hand to you once more, and you move to take it even before you realize that he’s offering you something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Keep this on your person at all times,” he says. “You shall never be unprotected again, even when I cannot reach you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a knife, little but surprisingly heavy. You can see a slim reflection of your face in the small, sharp blade as you cautiously unsheathe it.  You can’t help but notice that its handle is still warm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t accept this,” you protest, as much because it is a sudden gift as because you have no martial training beyond stabbing a needle through things a little too vigorously. You’ve heard some women, particularly among the Saxons, have that knowledge, but you’ve never considered you might be one of them.  “I’m more likely to cut myself than any assailant. And without Merlin’s magic to help me, I’m not likely to be abducted again either, God be willing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God be willing, it isn’t necessary,” he agrees with a sigh, “but I wouldn’t count on either God or Merlin in these matters.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You weigh your options along with the dagger.  Its blade glimmers more than any jewel. But then, it is currently bloodless.  You sheathe it again in discomfort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lancelot closes his hand over yours, pressing the blade into your palm.  The blood on it is dried and flaking, seeped into the texture of his skin, calloused from both training and experience.  But his hand is terribly warm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will teach you,” he says softly.  “May you never need it - or my services - ever again.  But should you...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” you say slowly, closing your hand around it as he relinquishes his grasp with seeming reluctance.  Or perhaps that’s only in your head. It’s swimming, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do not thank me,” he says.  “I am only attempting to ensure your safety.  It is what any knight should do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I believe I </span>
  <em>
    <span>will </span>
  </em>
  <span>thank you, thank you very much,” you retort.  “It is what any </span>
  <em>
    <span>lady </span>
  </em>
  <span>should do. And I am not in the habit of being told what to do, even by my rescuers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Momentarily, you hold the gift against your heart, composing yourself.  Lancelot does not speak at first, but bows his head to you as he nudges his horse back into motion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My lady,” he says once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dagger now at your hip may be heavy, but as you ride back to Camelot, your heart feels so light...</span>
</p>
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